


A perfect stitch

by DracoIgnis



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War II, Angry Kissing, Childhood Sweethearts, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Kissing, Lost Love, Nostalgia, Post-World War II, Soldier Jon Snow, fashion designer Jon Snow, kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:33:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23600119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoIgnis/pseuds/DracoIgnis
Summary: As Jon is sent off to war, he wishes he'd confessed his love to Daenerys. But perhaps it's not too late - time can change a lot of things. In 1949, Jon is about to find out how much. Contains original artwork.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 67
Kudos: 243





	A perfect stitch

**1937**

Jon was bleeding.

As Daenerys dragged a drenched cloth across his hand, Jon felt the cool water trickle down his scorched skin. He could barely see her; the scattered sunshine falling through the tree crown above seemed to light up her frame but leave her face in a shadow. If he concentrated, he could just make out her glimmering eyes, their colour like lavender fields.

“Does it hurt?” Daenerys asked and reached for something. Jon heard the clink of a metal basin being pulled closer. Water sloshed down its side and onto his bare legs.

“Does what hurt?” he asked. His voice was parched.

Daenerys chuckled. “I suppose everything.”

“Everything?” Jon tried to lick his lips, but his tongue was like a fried piece of meat; limp and dry, akin the burning August breeze that dragged at his hair. “Did I fall asleep?”

“I guess you could call it sleep.”

“Your statements are very vague.”

“How peculiar,” Daenerys said with pause, “to argue linguistics with a patient.”

“A patient?” Jon croaked confused.

She cocked her head and brushed the cloth across his forehead. “Do you prefer victim?” she teased.

“No.” Jon closed his eyes as droplets trickled into his lashes. His face felt wonderfully wet. It was only now, as he let his muscles rest, that he sensed how they ached - how his jaw throbbed, and his neck cracked, and his fingertips shivered with soreness. “No,” Jon repeated and sighed, the frayed fabric tickling his nostrils as Daenerys dragged it down to his wispy moustache, “just Jon does me fine.”

The sky was clear. Around them, golden fields of wheat stretched as far as the eye could see. Dots of blue and red and white revealed the existence of farms close by that could be reached by following the dusty countryside road, but atop the hill they were cut off from everything and everyone. There were only them and the oak tree, and as Jon let his head sink further into the softness of Daenerys’ lap, he wondered if he could pause the world and allow the moment to last a minute longer.

“Why did you fight them?” Daenerys asked.

“How did you find me?” Jon returned the question. He forced his eyes open again, worried that he might drift off if he didn’t make an effort to stay awake. He gazed upon all he could see; the brim of her hat, red like poppies, and her silver hair, curling like waves down her narrow shoulders. She was wearing a thin, white dress, he noted. The bosom was stained red.

Daenerys sighed and dipped the cloth back into the basin. “It wasn’t difficult,” she admitted. “You all left quite a path in the field. I’m sure your father won’t be pleased to see part of his harvest stomped to bits.”

“He won’t be happy to see me that way either,” Jon pointed out, making them both chuckle. He groaned as the laughter stung at his ribs. “They got me good, didn’t they?”

“Sure did.” Daenerys clucked her tongue and wiped up Jon’s arm. Strangely, he stopped feeling much once she went past his elbow. “This part will need a little work.”

Jon craned his neck to get a look, but he wished he hadn’t; there, just above the bend in his arm, was a thick, deep gash. Fresh blood mixed pink with the clean water, his wound akin a yawning mouth. He immediately dropped his head back onto Daenerys’ thighs and gulped: “That’ll need stitching.”

“I come prepared,” Daenerys chirped and pulled a little tin box into view. As she caught his eyes, her lips drew into a comforting smile and she reminded him: “You’ve had worse.”

“Had better too,” Jon mumbled, but he breathed in through his nose as he watched her thread a needle.

Daenerys’ mouth pursed and her brows frowned as she concentrated. “So tell me,” she said, “why did you fight them?”

As she leaned down over his arm, Jon’s eyes slipped from her face to the blue sky, and he tried to concentrate on the colour and not the tugging on his flesh. His eyelids trembled. Whenever they closed, scenes played out on the back of them like a film at the theatre:

There they were, Ramsay and Joffrey and Euron. It had been a losing battle from the beginning, but Jon had never been one to back down. Especially not after they said _that_. The memory alone made Jon’s blood boil, and he gritted his teeth together and thrashed his head to the side, as if the mere movement would shake the image out of his head. But he could still see the three lads grinning.

Ramsay he was well familiar with - the Boltons’ land bordered the Stark family’s fields, and for years Jon and Ramsay had met at the fenceline, exchanging insults and punches. He knew what to expect from him, and by now his jibes barely caused Jon to blink an eye. With Joffrey things were slightly different; the Lannisters tended to stay close to their estate, only bothering with the farmers when rent for their land was due. As such, Jon had only really seen the blond boy a few times in his life, but every time had been one marked with unpleasantries.

Euron, however, had been a surprise. As Jon explained it to Daenerys: “That family lives in Cornwall now. I’ve never seen them this far inland.”

“They’re visiting us,” Daenerys said softly, her eyes still focused on Jon’s wound.

Jon took in a sharp breath. He was staring across the fields. “Why?” he finally asked.

“I suppose Father seeks to expand his business. Farming never did interest him much, and Viserys wants to try his hands at another industry.”

“Viserys!” Jon scoffed. “He’s never worked a day in his life.”

“Be nice,” Daenerys chided, but he could hear the amusement in her voice. “Go on - Euron surprised you?”

“He’s almost twice our age! I don’t know what he gets out of beating people up,” Jon growled, though he sensed he did know. The way Euron had grinned at him as he stood above his wheezing body, his muddy boot pressing at his ribs - it was like looking at a child at Christmas. But he was soon distracted as something pinched his skin, and he clenched his hands to fists.

“Don’t fret,” Daenerys said gently, and Jon tried to loosen his fingers, but they were stuck to his palms. He could feel sweat forming on his tips. Soon, he could taste it on his lips too. He wasn’t sure whether it was from the heat, or the intense way in which his heart had started beating as she asked: “But _why_ did you fight?”

“Because-” Jon started, but he stopped, the words stuck on his lips. He looked back up at Daenerys, and he watched her cheeks, slightly flushed from the sun, and her pale lashes, gently fluttering, and her lips, resting on her tongue poked out in concentration. And he hesitated: “Because…”

Daenerys was always kind to him. Jon could not remember a time when she did not care for him. Whether it was arguing his worth to Aerys to secure him work at their stables, or chasing after Viserys when he shouted insults from atop his horse. Or like now, when she carelessly wiped her bloody fingers off in the hemline of her dress, her sole focus on his wound.

The gentle way in which she reached up to pat the sweat off his chin made him swallow, and he faintly stammered: “Because they said you’ll be married off.”

If he expected a reaction, he was disappointed - Daenerys’ face remained calm as she bit through the thread. “Is this the nineteenth century?” she asked. “I think I’d know if I were to be married.”

“To Euron,” Jon added weakly.

Daenerys’ eyes snapped to meet his. As they stared at each other, Jon noted how her plump lips pursed into a perfect circle on her face. “I’m barely sixteen,” she said slowly. “You said it yourself - he’s twice our age. Don’t act a fool.”

“I may be a fool,” Jon said, “but I don’t take kindly to lies.”

“It’s still a daft thing to fight anyone over.”

“They said more than that.”

Daenerys raised her brows. “What more?” - but Jon gritted his teeth and looked back across the fields.

“I can’t say,” he muttered, immediately grateful that his skin was so tanned by the sun that his blush must be hidden in the scorched shade. “I won’t say,” he clarified, and they both fell silent at once.

“It doesn’t matter,” Daenerys finally spoke, making Jon look back up at her. Her face was once more laid in neutral folds. She rose the cloth to her own cheeks and dapped them dry of sweat. “I know what they say about me. It’s the same they say about any girl around here. The way they speak, they might as well be talking of the crop - mature and ready for harvest.” She gestured at the fields around them.

The stems nodded heavily under their hardened kernel. Soon, the hill they were sat on would be surrounded by broken stalks and dry earth, and the golden fields would be but a thing of the past. Jon found at once that he disliked the changing seasons.

“Daenerys,” he started, but she patted at his arm with a little smile.

“All better,” she said and waved for him to sit.

Jon slowly pulled himself halfway up, his elbows sinking into Daenerys’ thighs as he rested upon them. When he glanced back at his arm, it was no longer weeping. The skin was nicely pulled together with a single thread. “A perfect stitch,” he noted, and Daenerys beamed at him.

Finally able to glance down himself, Jon took in the damage; from his bruised knuckles clad in scabs, to his battered abs peeking through his unbuttoned shirt, and his legs, the trousers rolled up to his knees to reveal mud and dirt stuck in several small cuts. He recognised the scarring from breaking the crop in the field. The dried stems of wheat were surprisingly rough on the skin.

“You should see your face,” Daenerys chuckled and brushed a curly lock of hair out of his eyes. It got caught in the breeze and dragged itself right back down, so she pushed her fingertips into his hair and pulled it all the way back from his face, holding it in place. She eyed him and sighed: “Shabby.”

Jon looked at her. He looked at her small nose and peach lips, and he felt an immediate urge to kiss her with all the vigour he could muster. An urge to push his fingers through her wavy locks, down her nape, all across her spine as he felt her. He imagined she tasted like fresh dew, her skin scented by the rose bushes that grew outside her window, her tongue against his as soft as velvet.

The tips of her nails dragged slowly down across his scalp as she let go of his hair. The locks blew back across his face. He lowered his eyes and cleared his throat. “Thank you,” he said.

“You can help me carry the basin back,” Daenerys replied. Her voice was clear, but it was quieter than before. “It is rather heavy.”

Together, they tipped out the murky water, and Daenerys gave the metal a quick scrub with the cloth before throwing the fabric to the wind. Slowly, as Jon adjusted himself to his aching body, they followed the broken path through the field toward the road, the basin swinging between them as they each claimed a handle. And as the last sweet scent of summer filled Jon’s nostrils, he glanced toward Daenerys and knew at once that something was about to change. He just wasn’t sure what.

  
  


**1943**

Jon was bleeding.

The air was burning. He felt like he was back at the blacksmith’s forge; the wind sizzled as if water was being thrown to blacken the fire, and the distant cries were the neighing of horses lined up to be shod. Jon sensed that if he were to open his eyes, he would see the glimmering sun peek through the cracked door and there, in the horizon, the golden fields of wheat waving in the August breeze.

“Wake up!” a voice snapped, and Jon gasped in a breath. The air was full of smoke. His lungs crackled like a creased paper bag. “Come on, Jon. Up!”

Jon’s head lolled to the side as he forced his eyes open. Plains of brown dusty earth stretched as far as he could see. In the horizon, he could spot the familiar dots of blue and red and white. “Is the harvest over?” he asked and pushed his hand to the soil. It was dry and hard like pebbles, and its colour matched the bloody scabs that covered every inch of his hand. To Jon, it was a peculiar sight. He didn’t remember cutting himself on the plough.

“Don’t be a fool,” the voice scolded him, and Jon let go of a parched laugh.

“Daenerys,” he said and glanced at the shadow hovering above him, “you should’ve woken me up. Father will be mad I didn’t help.” The sun was filtering through the clouded sky. The faint light lit up the frame of a person as they moved above him, but the longer he stared, the sooner Jon came to realise that it was not Daenerys watching him. It was a man.

As Grey’s face came into view, Jon’s heart sunk in his chest. It was as if the whole world was imposed on him at once: a stench of ash and burning flesh filled his nostrils, the sound of gunfire hammered in his ears, and the colours in the horizon were not farflung farms but the blue water, white foamy waves, red ponds of blood.

“Was I hit?” Jon asked, his voice suddenly grave, and Grey’s face seemed to relax a little.

“You’re awake,” he commented and pushed his helmet back a bit, revealing his bruised forehead to the sun. “I thought we lost you.”

“I’m like weed,” Jon said, “can’t kill me.”

“Said nothing about death,” Grey pointed out, “thought we lost you to dreamland. You’ve been blabbering about England for hours.” He wiped his hands off in his shirt. His uniform jacket hung open, revealing how the white undershirt had stained red.

“What got me?” Jon asked.

“Shrapnel,” Grey replied and spat at the ground. He pulled a flask from his belt and pushed it to Jon’s lips. “Drink,” he ordered, and Jon dutifully gulped down the tepid water.

By the time the metal left his mouth, he still wasn’t satisfied. He smacked his lips, allowing a droplet or two to trickle down his chin and get lost in his coarse beard. “Please, Doc, will I ever play the piano again?” Jon jested, and Grey smirked:

“Think we’ll all be better off if you didn’t.”

Jon couldn’t tell whether Sicily was bathed in heat, or if his quickened heartbeat was causing his body to boil, but a thin layer of sweat was covering every inch of him, and it seemed to cling onto his uniform like an itchy second layer of skin. He moved a little, causing his joints to crack, and Grey waved for him to remain still.

“We’ll get you to a medic,” he promised, “but stay down for now.”

“Did you patch me up?”

“Real good,” Grey nodded. As he settled back against a crumbling wall, he withdrew a cigarette from his inner pocket and popped it between his lips. Before he lit it, he grinned: “Left a perfect stitch on your arm.”

“That was there already,” Jon said before glancing down to notice a fresh wound next to his old one. This one was longer, and deeper, and Jon had to let his head fall back onto the ground not to grimace. “Fuck.”

“Told you,” Grey said as he let smoke seep from the sides of his lips. He gazed toward the sky and sighed: “It’s going to be a long afternoon.”

As the sky darkened and the sound of gunfire eased, Jon watched the rubble around them and wondered what life would have been like if he’d stayed with the Stark family. It was a fruitless game of what-if that he rarely allowed himself to linger on, but in the quiet moments, when he was neither fighting nor frolicking, his mind seemed to drag him back to the fields, and nothing could stop him from pondering. After all, he wasn’t forced to go; as a farmer, he was considered exempt from conscription. Instead of counting bodies he could be counting sheep. Rather than driving tanks he could be riding horses. As opposed to laying on the hard, dusty ground, he could be nestled into Daenerys’ soft lap.

Jon’s heart fluttered at once, and he briefly closed his eyes, allowing the image of her to play across his lids. There she was; with her youthful smile and vivid violet eyes and precious pale skin and fluttering silver hair. There she was, the image of his childhood sweetheart.

On the day he left, she’d held his hand so tight that he thought every bone in it to be broken. She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to - immediately, they understood how every moment they’d spent together over the past few years weaved together into a sentence of its own, words that they should have spoken and now neither would speak but knew at heart. Though now, Jon sensed at once that he ought to write it, and his fingertips searched his every pocket for a snippet of paper.

“Have you got anything?” he asked Grey before clarifying: “Some parchment. Some fabric?”

Grey watched him calmly. He had another drag of his smoke, let the ashes blow away with the wind, and then handed the cigarette to Jon. “Here, have the rest.”

“Paper,” Jon said and waved it away with annoyance. “I need paper.”

“You’re writing Daenerys?” Grey asked, but his voice sounded so weary that Jon found himself stopping his search.

As his fingertips pushed into the frayed pockets of his uniform jacket, he sent Grey a peculiar look. “What about it?” he asked, but he finally accepted the cigarette and had a drag. The smoke filled his lungs. It seemed to calm his heart at once, and he allowed himself to sink back on to the ground, his gaze never once leaving Grey’s. “You look odd,” he mumbled.

Grey smacked his lips and sighed. “Jon,” he said, but he paused immediately and shook his head. “Jon, you can’t write Daenerys.”

“Not here,” Jon agreed, “but we’ll be back in camp sometime soon.” Still, he sensed Grey meant differently, so he silenced as his friend took in a deep breath.

“Do you remember the letter from your father?” he asked.

“All is well,” Jon spoke. The words seemed strange on his lips - as if he’d spoken them before. “The farm is well. Robb is to be married.”

Grey pulled off his helmet to scratch at his head. Though normally clean-shaven, weeks in the field had caused a rough layer of black hair to cover his scalp. He picked a dry scab out from between the hairs and flickered it aside. “And what about Catelyn’s last letter?” Grey asked.

Jon’s brows furrowed. “I don’t write my stepmother,” he said, yet something was ringing in his ears. A memory was pushing its way to the surface. As he had another drag of the cigarette, the smoke left his lips with the realisation: “Ned is dead.”

“Your father had a heart-attack,” Grey said. He spoke slowly, as if allowing every word to sink into Jon’s head. As Jon laid still smoking, his eyes focused on nothing in particular, he added: “Catelyn wrote you a few months back. Eddard passed away in the winter.”

“I should write Daenerys,” Jon said in the same, earning him a sigh from Grey.

“All your letters to Daenerys went through your father,” he pointed out. “Jon, remember, you-”

“I should write to her,” Jon insisted, Grey’s words not reaching him at all. He stared toward the horizon. The familiar farms had returned; dots of blue and red and white. If he narrowed his eyes, he could believe. He desperately wanted to believe. “I should tell her.” Once more, his fingers started searching every pocket of his uniform, and it was with a joyful gasp that he managed to get hold of a piece of paper. He smiled triumphantly at Grey as he dragged the little slip out of his trousers, but less so once he turned it over and saw that it had already been written on.

In Catelyn’s unmistakable handwriting, it said:

> _Jon,_
> 
> _It is with regret that I write to inform you of the death of your father. He passed away before Christmas. His heart is now at peace._
> 
> _I urge you to no longer send your letters here. I have no dealings with the Targaryens._
> 
> _Regards,_
> 
> _C Stark._

Jon swallowed. “She will not forward my letters?”

“Jon,” Grey said, and he reached out to push his hand through Jon’s curls. He gave them a rough tug. Though it made his scalp ache, Jon knew it to be a gesture of kindness. “It’s been over half a year,” he said, “you must move on.”

“She will not forward my letters,” Jon repeated, but this time it was a statement. He slowly folded up the piece of paper and placed it back in his pocket, his movements almost mechanical.

“I reached out to Missi,” Grey said, “but she couldn’t locate her either. I don’t think she lives in the countryside anymore, and who can blame her? The whole world’s a mess.” He spat at the ground once more, this time with more anger, and he put his helmet back on with a headshake. “I’m sorry,” he said and sent Jon a pitiful look, “sometimes, it’s better to forget.”

Jon didn’t say anything else. He just sat and had a last drag of the cigarette, watching the ashes die out on his lips, and when he blinked, a glimpse of wetness escaped down his cheeks. The cool feeling reminded him of the summer Daenerys’ washed his wounds with care under the old oak tree.

  
  


**1949**

Jon was bleeding.

A blob of red slipped down the side of the needle. Jon watched the prick on his fingertip for a moment longer before sucking it into his mouth, the metallic taste heavy on his tongue. It was funny, he thought, as he rolled up his sleeve to cover the stain on his cuff; he always seemed to injure the same arm.

The room was hot. The windows were flung wide open, but no breeze managed to survive in between the London buildings. The air was at a standstill outside, the August heat simmering in waves across the asphalt. When he moved, he could sense droplets of sweat slipper down his face. Despite slicking his curls back, they always seemed to bounce to his eyes, the hairs sticking across his wet forehead. As Jon walked around the mannequin, he pushed his hand through his hair once more, holding the locks down as he watched the dress before him.

The top was delicate lace, crocheted into stems of lavender. The flowers reached halfway down the arms before the silk fabric took over, ending in a rounded opening at the wrist. The neckline was a simple sweetheart, and the bodice nipped in at the waist before reaching out into an a-line skirt, the lace draped over to give an illusion of lightness. As Jon eyed every detail, he found himself satisfied with what was before him, still his eyebrows were furrowed in concern.

“Dear me!” a voice chirped from the doorway. He did not have to look to know that Margaery had entered the room. She stood in awe, her hands clapped together in joy as she proclaimed: “Only you can make something so wonderful and still look so drab. Go on! What is the matter?”

“I do not like it,” Jon muttered, his hands dragging from his hair to his beard, and he held onto his chin as he circled the dress once more. “It is off.”

“It is beautiful,” Margaery assured him. “Whatever could be off?”

“The size,” Jon said.

Margaery pursed her lips. “Three months and you still haven’t let go of that one,” she spoke. “I told you - our client is a busy man. It is to be expected that he would provide the measurements, but not the model.”

“The doctor is not our client unless he intends to wear the dress himself,” Jon protested. He sighed and threw out his arms in a hopeless gesture as he spun on his heels to face his assistant. Margaery stood patiently watching him, her hands folded at her front, and Jon felt himself tire just at the thought of arguing with his brother’s wife. Instead, he took a seat at the open window, listening to the sounds from the street below.

Margaery slowly approached, her eyes darting between him and the gown. “She will be in today,” she spoke, “and you will find that the measurements are accurate.”

“And if they are not?” Jon asked. He didn’t look up until she hovered him, her shadow falling in over his face.

“Then you charge him extra,” Margaery said simply, and Jon let go of a short laugh.

“This is not about money,” Jon assured her.

“You’ve made that quite clear from the beginning,” she retorted, and Jon wondered if there was a slight in there. But before he could ask, she’d sauntered back off to the doorway. She only turned to briefly state: “She will be here in five. I’ll bring her straight in.” Then, she was gone.

Jon leaned back, his gaze slipping from the dress to the painting on the wall in the back. There, framed in heavy wood, was a lush landscape. Fields of golden wheat, a dusty countryside road snailing its way around a few grassy hills, a lonely oak tree perched atop the tallest one.

As Jon closed his eyes, he was back there. He was no longer thirty, and no longer scarred, and his legs did not hurt when he tried to walk uphill. No, in his memory he was young; his cheeks were flushed and his eyes glimmered like the ocean, and he ran with haste to where the rose bushes grew tallest. There, through the window, he could see her - a silver-haired beauty with violet eyes, her smile so bright it made him believe the sun was shining. He could smell the flowers. He could hear her voice. It spoke:

“Good afternoon,” and he mumbled:

“Good to see you,” before his eyes fluttered open and he did see:

Daenerys Targaryen stood in the doorway with an ashen expression of shock on her face. She looked frail like a feather, and, as Jon stood up, he worried at once that simply breathing in her direction could cause her to fly away. Her gloved hands were closed tightly around the doorframe, and it was only when Margaery chirped:

“Do enter, Miss,” that she pried her hands off the wood and slowly walked across the threshold.

To Jon, it was as if time had reversed. As he stood staring at her, he recognised her every feature; the wavy silver hair, the pale lashes, the peach lips, the rounded chin, the narrow shoulders, the small fingers. Words welled up in his throat - ten years of questions and stories that demanded to be spoken all at once, but before he could even part his lips, Daenerys bowed her head politely and offered him her hand as she said:

“Mr Snow,” and Jon stepped over, claimed her palm in his, and placed a kiss in the air just above her hand as he greeted:

“Miss Targaryen, a pleasure to see you.” Their eyes met. Jon desperately wanted to stop time and just admire her for a moment longer, but Margaery took Daenerys’ coat and gloves before either of them had a chance to protest.

“We have been most excited to have you stop by,” Margaery chattered. She led Daenerys by the arm as she moved her toward the mannequin, her voice never faltering. “It is not oft that Mr Snow works from measurements alone, but I am sure you will find that he’s done a darling job.”

Whilst Jon still eyed Daenerys, she seemed to compose herself. As if stepping onto a stage, she suddenly straightened and her whole attitude changed, an air of importance forming around her. “My time is rather sparse,” she said, “I am sure you understand.”

“Of course,” Margaery spoke with the intention to please. She did not let go of Daenerys’ arm until they stood right before the gown, but by then she silenced and stepped away, her eyes seeking Jon’s with excitement.

But Jon paid her no heed. His full attention was on Daenerys as she walked around the gown, inspecting it with a neutral expression on her face. He sensed immediately that tradition was at fault; she did not belong in a pale canvas, but a radiant red. The brim of her hat slippered into his memory. His heart ached with longing.

After circling the gown, Daenerys paused at its front, and she leaned in, her fingertips caressing the lace. “Lavender,” she noted, her voice soft.

“Since childhood,” Jon said, “it has been my favourite flower.” As their eyes met, he felt his lips dry, and he knew that she understood at once.

“We should get you fitted,” Margaery spoke, and she gestured for Jon to exit through the door, but he stood still.

“I will do the fitting,” he said.

As Daenerys’ cheeks blushed, Margaery protested: “It would be highly inappropriate-”, but Daenerys cut her off before she could say else:

“Mr Snow should do the fitting.” She took in a sharp breath through her nose and held Jon’s gaze for a moment longer before turning to Margaery. “I insist.”

“She insists,” Jon repeated unnecessarily.

Maragery looked aghast, yet she cleared her throat and nodded. “As you will,” she spoke, but there was a forced politeness to her voice. She gave Daenerys one last look before heading out of the room, the door slipping closed behind her.

The next few minutes passed in silence. The moment Daenerys popped the top button of her shirt, Jon turned his back on her and stared out of the open window. He stood watching the cars drive on the street below, and smelled the grease from the shoeshiner who knelt on the pavement, his hands dirtied from work. But it was the sounds behind him which captivated his imagination; the slight rustling of fabric being folded, the sound of silk crossing bare skin, the clack of heels crossing wooden floors, the almost silent melody of hair being moved across the shoulder.

Jon’s nose blushed. His fingertips longed to touch. Still, when Daenerys uttered, “I am ready,” he could barely look at her, but watched the tips of his shoes as he marched back to the mannequin, slipped the dress of its lifeless form, and turned in the direction of Daenerys.

“Please,” he said, still looking down, “you must step into it.”

She complied; he saw her small toes and bare legs as she stepped over the skirt, and her fingertips brushed against his knuckles as she claimed the fabric from him, holding at the neckline to ensure her bosom was covered. As he hesitated, she said: “You have to button up the back.”

“Of course,” Jon said, but he waited a moment longer before he walked around her, his eyes still gazing at the hemline of the dress.

“Will you not look at me?” she asked, and in her voice he sensed hurt.

Jon swallowed. “I find it difficult,” he admitted, reaching up to grab at the lowest button. It rested just at the bend in her back. When he glanced at it, he saw her pale skin behind it, whiter than the fabric itself. A single bump from her spine was visible. At his touch, it blushed lightly pink.

“You find it difficult?” Daenerys asked with hollow laughter to her voice. “Why, imagine how I feel. I thought you were dead.”

“Dead!” The button almost missed the loop. Jon pinched it tightly between his fingertips as he allowed his gaze to slip up her back. Her silver hair was pulled aside, allowing him sight of her nape. “I am alive and well.”

“I see that,” Daenerys replied, but there was no comfort to be found in her voice. As Jon’s fingers continued up her spine, the buttons slipping into place, she took in a shivering breath. “You’re alive,” she agreed, “and you’re a dressmaker now. Quite the change.”

“War changes you,” Jon muttered.

“It does,” Daenerys agreed without specifying. She took in another deep breath. “Why did you not write to me?”

“I wrote to you every day.”

“Your letters stopped.”

Jon paused halfway up her back. His fingertips trembled. He watched them with care. “My father died,” he replied, and it seemed as if Daenerys’ body softened against his touch.

Her shoulders relaxed. A breath escaped her lips. Her back rocked against his hands as she spoke: “I know.” She paused, then shortly glanced over her shoulder as she muttered: “I’m sorry.”

Jon nodded and swallowed. Then, he continued, the buttons closing at haste. “I had no address.” His voice had gained power again. His moustache quivered under his breath when he spoke. “How could I have reached you? You moved from the countryside.”

“The country was at war,” Daenerys said, her lips pursed. “Did you expect me to stay idle?”

“Now you are to marry,” Jon continued, a bitterness to his words that not even he expected. However once he’d started, he could not stop - with the same force by which he hooked the buttons he spoke: “When in the line of fire, it was the thought of you that kept me alive. I’m only saddened I was not the same to you.” The last button was about to slip into place, but Daenerys spun on her heels in the same, her right hand gripping at his collar. When he looked into her eyes, they were overflowing with tears.

“Do not speak to me of war!” she said through gritted teeth. She stared at him, her chest rising under her quickened breathing, and it was only when she saw the surprise in his eyes that she let go. She stared at her own hand in shock. Then, with an audible sob, she dragged it over her cheeks to wipe them dry. “I’ve seen it too,” she said, “I was in London when the bombs fell.”

Jon drew in a sharp breath through his nose. His stomach churned. He wanted to hold her and shake her at once. “Why did you come here?” he asked, and he gestured toward the window as if showing her the whole capital. “You were safe out there. You could’ve stayed with your father.”

“Whilst you were being blown to pieces?” Daenerys scoffed. She ran her fingers through her locks, the silver waves coming undone. Hair-pins dropped to the floor at random. Neither of them bothered to pick them up. “You could’ve stayed too,” she reminded him. “No farmers were drafted.”

“I was only doing my duty,” Jon muttered quietly, but all it earned him was a wry smile from Daenerys.

“And I only did mine,” she replied. They stared at each other, neither of them willing to step down, so it was only when Jon pointed to her nape that she turned and allowed him to do up the last button.

The fabric was snug around her frame. The measurements were exact.

Like a hawk, Jon inspected every inch of the gown. He circled Daenerys, and his hands tucked at the hemline, inspected the seams, glanced at the lace. His fingertips brushed alongside her narrow shoulders, and his rough palm stroked down her sides, his eyes ensuring it nipped in at the waist like a mirror image. At his every move, Daenerys watched him with patience.

“Why a dressmaker?” she asked softly.

Jon pushed his fingers through his hair, forcing his curls out of his eyes as he furrowed his brows in concentration. “I'm tired of conflict,” he said, not gazing away from the gown once. He wanted to find a fault so desperately that he felt sweat starting to prickle at his skin. “There is too much pain in the world. When I returned, I decided to only make beauty. Pain wears down the soul, but beauty-” The words died on his lips whilst she still watched him expectantly. It was only when he knelt at her feet, pulling at the lace and muttered: “Perhaps it should be taken up an inch,” that Daenerys finally stopped him.

“Jon,” she said, and his eyes snapped up to meet hers. Violet shimmered down at him. Peach lips pulled into a small smile. “Jon,” she said, “every stitch is perfect.”

As Jon stood, he joined her side as they both faced the mirror, and he saw her fully: how the silk ended snugly at her wrist, the button keeping it right in place, and how the lace sat brilliantly across her chest, the sweetheart neckline drawing the eye perfectly down her bosom to her waist where the fabric flowed naturally, the skirt rounding her hips into a well-formed figure.

It was a perfect dress, but an imperfect situation, and as Jon realised that he was not in a groom’s suit but a worn shirt and dirty slacks, he flushed and quickly stalked away from the mirror to the window. He leaned onto the sill and took in a deep breath. Blood rushed to his head and drowned out the faint sound of wedding bells that were ringing in his fantasies.

“Your fiance will be pleased,” he said, his jaw clenched. “Doctor, was it? I seem to remember from the booking.”

“He is a doctor,” Daenerys agreed. Her voice was pleasant, but stiff. “I met him here, in London.”

“During the bombings?”

“Indeed.” Jon could hear her move across the floor, but barely. He imagined she was turning in front of the mirror. “There were many patients to treat. I’m sure you know that already. We worked together at the hospital.”

“You are a doctor?” Jon queried.

Daenerys replied: “I was a nurse.”

“Should have been a doctor,” Jon said, eyeing his arm. He could still see the faint, pink line from his old scar. It was much neater than the roughened patch next to it which marked his time in Sicily. “You have always accepted less than what you deserve.”

“Pray tell, Jon,” Daenerys said. This time she was moving closer - he could hear her bare feet slipper across the floor toward him. “What do I deserve?”

When he turned, he was face to face with her. She stood staring up at him, the expression on her face earnest, and Jon felt his fingers grip hard around the edge of the sill behind him. His heart skipped a beat. His words seemed to get lost on his tongue. “I suppose,” Jon said slowly, and he knew of many compliments to give, but seeing her standing there, the perfect bride for someone else, all he could muster was: “I suppose I should take comfort in the fact that your surname won’t be Greyjoy.”

Daenerys’ eyes narrowed, and her lips were sucked between her teeth in a sneer. “I had to move on,” she said.

“The dress tells me as much,” Jon spoke curtly, because speaking softly was too hard.

Daenerys shook her head in disbelief. “I spent years waiting for you, Jon,” she said. She raised her hands to his shirt, and her fingertips dug into the fabric, closing around it. She bit her lower lip as she watched his chest heave. “I sat in the rubbles at night, listening to people screaming around me. I was too scared to move in case the Germans were to return. I was too ashamed to cry.”

“Why?” Jon heard himself ask.

Daenerys let go of a pitiful laugh, and she tucked some more at his shirt as she glanced up to meet his eyes. “Because I thought of you,” she replied. Her eyes quivered when she spoke. Tears were being waved away by her pale lashes, and they dribbled down her cheeks like rivers. “I thought, if Jon can fight abroad and not be scared, then I can sit at home and be brave for him. That’s what I thought. So I didn’t cry, and I didn’t moan, and I waited every day for Ned to send me your letters. They were my light in the dark.”

Jon’s lips were dry. He tried to lick them, but no wetness was to be found. He felt himself empty of all. Like a hollowed out piece of wood - stern, but without substance. “You never mentioned this in your letters,” he said. Then, with more force, he grabbed at her waist and pulled her closer. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he urged.

“And worry you?” Daenerys asked. She stared at him bewildered. “What kind of woman would I be! Writing about my petty worries to a soldier.”

“Better to forget him and marry instead?”

“I thought you were dead!” Daenerys repeated angrily, her voice tired. She tucked harder at his shirt, but with every pull, Jon drew her closer. “Damn it, Jon, don’t turn this on me!”

“Just tell me you won’t marry!” Jon begged, surprising himself.

Daenerys shook her head, and she pushed her hands flat to his chest as she dragged herself away from his hold. “I can’t turn back time!” she said. “I can’t be the sweet, innocent girl you once loved!” Her voice cracked as she sobbed: “How I wish I could be loved!”

“You always have been!” Jon was about to pull her in but his thumbs slipped across the seams of the gown. The prick from earlier tore open. A bright stripe of red blood smeared across her front.

As Daenerys gasped and stared down her bosom, Jon stopped, hands outstretched, his eyes wide and frightened at his own mishap. For a second, as Daenerys reached out for him and cried: “You fool!” he was sure she would slap him.

But instead, her soft hands closed around his face. Her fingertips pushed into his black curls. Her lips crashed to his. And her body, small and warm, pressed into his arms, urging itself close.

Jon returned the kiss harshly at first, his mouth greedy and his hands likewise so, closing around her waist and back as if he could claim her all at once. There was anger to their breaths, the fury of having been apart for years, and there was desire in their tongues, pressing close for the taste of each other they’ve always denied themselves, and there was love.

Love was in abundance, Jon sensed, as their eager lips grew tender, slow, their mouths curious. And he allowed himself to fall in love all over; not with the young girl he loved when he was a troubled lad, or the faded memory of her he’d cherished as a beaten soldier abroad. No, he fell in love as a man of his own with a woman of her own, who was as fresh and new and curious and strange as snow on a summer’s day.

When their lips parted, he was out of breath, and he could barely manage to stroke her hair though he wished to feel every inch of her. His body felt weak. He leaned against the sill, his every bone exhausted, and Daenerys rested her forehead at the curve of his neck, her nose nestled to his Adam’s apple.

“Is it true?” she whispered. “You always loved me?”

Jon glanced across the room. There it hung, the framed picture of golden fields, but it suddenly seemed foreign to him. Whatever he’d longed for was not there, but right in his arms, and he held her close and kissed her silver locks as he whispered:

“Now more than ever.”

  
  


**1955**

Jon placed the single stem of lavender at the foot of the great oak tree. As he glanced up at the crown, the branches reaching far into the blue sky, he lingered for a moment on the smell of summer that seemed heavy in the dry August breeze.

“I still can’t believe they buried him here,” he spoke, “with no stone to mark it.”

Daenerys slipped her arms around his and rested her head against his shoulder. The brim of her hat pushed at his curls. He felt its velvety softness tickle his scalp. “Your father wanted simplicity in life,” she said. “It’s no surprise he wished it in death too.”

Clear sky. Golden fields. Dots of blue and red and white. Same man. Same woman. But almost twenty years had passed.

They settled on the grass, Daenerys’ back pressed to the trunk and Jon’s head in her lap, and he could almost believe that they were young again. And as the last sweet scent of summer filled Jon’s nostrils, he caught sight of Daenerys’ secretive smile, and he knew at once that something was about to change. He wasn’t sure what - but he knew it would be good.

**Author's Note:**

> In August last year, I got a kissing prompt from Napshika on Tumblr - and promptly forgot all about it! I am so sorry. I know it's over half a year late, but here's the story! The prompt was "Angry kiss", and somehow that morphed into this. Hope it was enjoyable!
> 
> Thank you so much to DragonandDirewolf for the lovely art. Both really capture the sense of the story - nostalgic and heart-wrenching yet (hopefully) sweet. Check out her Tumblr for more amazing Jonerys pieces!


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